How long have I waited
for a kiss to my heart?
How long had I settled
for lips pressing upon lips?
Watching lovers on celluloid
Cursing the fiction and the fantasy
that precipitated yearnful dreams
Dreams that died a day at a time
to the mechanics of sex
Violation not volition
And then… Magic
A new path
A new dream
A new choice
Of yearning excitement
Finally a kiss
A real kiss
A kiss of the soul
A kiss that felt like home
How long had I waited
for a kiss to my heart.
I am a tea drinker. Always have been.
5 cups…6 cups…is there a limit to the tea that one can drink?
Tea was comfort food for me. A wakeup call, a constant buddy who accompanied me as I wandered around in the maze of my mind, a soothing companion to watch tele with. Tea was almost a family member. In fact, tea was a sibling.
But then coffee decided to come into town.
Coffee with his deep baritone and heady aroma.
Tea is safe, they said. But coffee had a unique magnetic pull. Coffee said, come, let’s get out of your head and explore new paths. Let’s loose some sleep and find some adventures. Let me wrap you up in my aroma – you just snuggle in and inhale.
A lot can happen over coffee once sounded like a corny tag line. Until it became the truth of my life.
I met him over cups of coffee. I accepted him over cups of coffee. We merged over cups of coffee.
I am a tea drinker who loves coffee; and I toasted this over Champaign.
I am unique. I am exotic. I am complete.
I did everything you wanted; gave you my love, loyalty, my best.
Then the world came along to demean me, ‘Ah, what a well-trained pet,’ they said.
That didn’t really bother me, until you turned around and acknowledged, ‘O Yes.’
In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales: Week 142 challenge, based on a photo by Wyatt Ryan via Unsplash
Her need to paint was her compulsion. My need to see her happy was mine. She painted on paper, on canvas, the furniture, the walls, the windows.
Her parents blamed me for enabling her. “She needs medication.” “The house looks ridiculous.”
But all that mattered was that painting kept her calm.
“Look at her, splattered in colour everywhere, streaks on her hair and under hair nails.”
Yes, look at her, so beautiful, so radiant, a piece of art.
Then one day the brush slipped out of her fingers, and her work here was done.
I painted her on the outer wall, for the world to see. My gorgeous wild artist.
So beautiful, so radiant, a piece of art.
In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 87 photo prompt
The old man hunched over, sweat pouring down the deep crevices on his face. Mottled hands shielded his eyes from the harsh sun, but nothing could shield the look of resigned disappointment peering out of wizened eyes. He looked as though a gust of wind could blow him down, but the old man had weathered many a storm, and yet here he stood. He had stories to tell, of lessons hard learnt, and battles well fought. Experience coursed through his veins.
Experience that told him that the teacher can not give until the student was ready to receive.
The young ones had to chart their own course, navigate their own choppy waters, become masters of their own ships.
Times were hard. The economy was bad. Hustling was the order of the day. To the victor went the spoils. They wanted the easy life. Watching them ride the wave of a beginner’s luck, he wanted to tell them that if you dance with the devil, you will get burnt. Yet silent he stayed, listless eyes watching, not telling, fire adorning his skin. He had sown the seed of humanity, but they had to break through the harsh crust of life.
As a father, he could only bend over and provide them some shade.
Photo Credit: Joy Pixley
In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of Sep 2, 2018.
In life there is no ever after, and happily needn’t start with a fairy-tale. Twenty years of marriage had taught me that.
Ours wasn’t love at first sight. He wasn’t a romantic sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type of guy. But he was honest, hard working, and more importantly, he gave me respect and space, a courtesy rarely extended to women of my generation.
When that mutual respect transformed into friendship and love, I cannot say.
We did not discuss things like feelings, or mark milestones with expensive gestures or elaborate adventures. As I packed away his things, I realised that while we may not have had any grand moments, we had enjoyed many happy ones.
In the brief time that we had together, we had created many beautiful memories.
Like this silly old snow globe that he gave me for our first Christmas…
“Show me that,” my mother-in-law requested from her wheel-chair. “You still have this! Your father-in-law, bless his heart, gave this to me for our first Christmas.”
I held on to the globe tenderly. My beloved had been a romantic after all.
In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of December 17th 2017, based on a photo credited to A Mixed Bag 2013
I don’t normally rummage through garbage. Specially not if its a filthy cardboard box in what could potentially (read that as probably) be a bio-hazard dumpster.
Today I did.
I rolled up my sleeves, looked around for anything that could substitute for gloves, managed to find one plastic bag, looked for another, eventually gave up, and simply dug in with two bare hands. After all I have 24 hours to take a tetanus shot.
There are laws against driving with a kitten without a carrier, but I’d rather pay the fine than leave her behind.
Something tells me that after one look into those beautiful yellow orbs, the cop’s gonna give me a pass.
In response to Priceless Joy’s 144th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge based on a picture by Enisa.
I stare at the row of houses. Somehow I know that I am supposed to walk into one of them, but no matter how hard I try, I cant remember which. My mind is a heavy fog, and if I try too hard, the fog starts swirling and churning, and that hurts so much. I just stop. Maybe if I wait for a while it will all come back.
In the distance I hear a scream. A young woman is running frantically. She looks scared and I wonder why. But then she runs up to me and grabs my hand. “Mom, you know your not supposed to go out alone. Where did you go?”
I really don’t know why she’s holding my hand so tightly. I want to tell her that it hurts, but she’s all shaken up and I don’t want to upset her further.
My feet are wet and sandy. I must have come from the water. Although I don’t really recall.
She drags me along and I follow. For some reason, I just want her to calm down. She seems nice.
In response to The Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of December 3rd 2017
She should wait for him. Sam would be home shortly. But freshly baked bread was her weakness. God, she hoped that it wasn’t vanity to appreciate your own cooking. Just last Sunday the pastor had spoken of pride. Gulping down a little wine, she said a quick prayer.
Almost six. Yes, he should be home soon.
Suddenly the phone rang. Ah, it was Jason.
“Hi ma. Just called to check if you’ve taken your pills.”
“I will. After supper.”
“Why have you not eaten yet?”
“I’m waiting for Sam.”
“Ma… He’s not coming. Dad’s dead, remember.”
In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 45 challenge based on a photo by Brooke Lark
Arms that rocked an infant to sleep
Arms that picked a crying babe
Arms that made a tub feel safe
Arms that walked a child to school
Arms that could ride better than any hero
Arms that could fix anything at home
Arms that made the warmest pillow
Arms that made the world feel safe
Arms that taught and gave good guidance
Arms that meticulously filed every accomplishment
Arms that never wavered in their grip
Arms that could stoke softer than a feather
Arms that were strong enough to give a bride away
Arms that rocked an infant to sleep
Arms that told stories not in books
Arms that calmed when parents raged
Arms that could hammer harder than Thor
Arms that signed and taught secret codes
Arms that clapped louder than any crowd
Arms that were never too busy to play
Arms that sagged with each passing day
Arms that moved far too slow
Arms that petrified after a stroke
Arms crossed over a body laid to rest
Your grandson and I miss you daddy. You will always be the world’s best pillow and our secret superhero.
Triggered by the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt – Arm.